


step for two

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Fics - Part Two [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ballet, Ballet Dancer Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parenthood, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Holmes has a kid, balletlock, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 01:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30081687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: When single dad Sherlock Holmes enrolls his young son in ballet class, unexpected sparks fly between Sherlock and the fill-in dance instructor, John Watson.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Fics - Part Two [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968538
Comments: 55
Kudos: 115
Collections: The Curious Case of Ole Twinkletoes





	step for two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [martinsahedgehog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/martinsahedgehog/gifts).



> Prompted by @depresssionnnnnn on Tumblr: _John is a children's dance instructor, maybe ballet. Sherlock's son wants to learn so Sherlock reluctantly takes him to the classes_
> 
> \----
> 
> I know nothing about ballet. I tried to do my research but can't guarantee what I've written about re: ballet makes any sense. You have been warned.
> 
> **Title changed from Dance of Two to Step for Two**

Sherlock never imagined himself as a father. When he agreed to donate his sperm to a friend in need, he never expected it to be more than that. Caroline preferred her own company as much as Sherlock preferred his own, and Sherlock thought he knew what he was getting into. He was well aware that there was a vast difference between fathering a child and being a parent. He was expected to do one and not to have to do the other if he so chose. That was fine by him.

The donation was handled by a fertility clinic. It was all above-board and went as smoothly as someone trying to become pregnant could. It seemed, at first, that everything had gone to plan. Sherlock’s part to play was finished, and he was under no obligation to participate in raising the child he’d helped create.

For all intents and purposes, he was free to move on with his life.

But, nine months later, when a baby boy was born, and Caroline passed unexpectedly from complications, Sherlock received a phone call. With no living family or close friends, Caroline had chosen him as her emergency contact. By the time Sherlock arrived, she’d been removed from the delivery room, and there was one more screaming child in the world.

According to the final whispered breath of his late mother to the attending, his name was Dominic.

Sherlock was listed on the birth certificate as the father, but that didn’t mean he was a parent. He knew that: simple genetics did not a parent make. Sherlock had options. Adoption, for one. It would have been easy to simply let someone else take Dominic and raise him as their own.

But then Sherlock had stared down at the squalling child in his arms, noted that they shared the same eye colour, and found he didn’t want that. 

That day, Sherlock became more than a father. He was no longer just someone who had put his genetic material out into the world. Sherlock became a parent, complete with an armful of sniffling baby and no idea what came next. In time, he figured it out. As with anything, there was a learning curve. His parents helped. His brother made an effort to be a doting uncle. Sherlock’s landlady, a sweet, older woman everyone called Mrs. Hudson, obsessed over them both.

He’d once heard it said that it took a village to raise a child, and Sherlock certainly seemed to have gained a village of his own.

As he grew from a baby to a toddler and into childhood, Dominic kept Sherlock’s eyes and inherited his cheekbones, his strong jawline and curls. From his late mother came his dark brown skin and darker hair, his short, round nose. Dominic was a handsome child, shooting up like a weed as if determined to reach Sherlock’s height before he hit adolescence.

But with the growth spurt came an awkwardness. Dominic’s height made him clumsy, and it was more than once that he’d tripped over his long legs. Exasperated and embarrassed by constantly struggling against his own skewed centre of gravity, he came to his father with a plea. He asked how Sherlock’s parents handled his own growth spurts.

That brought Sherlock to the matter of sitting across the kitchen table from an annoyed twelve-year-old with fresh scrapes on his knees.

Hands folded before him on the table, Sherlock frowned and considered the question. His parents had tried many things to tame his clumsiness. They’d enrolled him in group sports, track and field, employed mindfulness training. Nothing had worked. Sherlock had continued to grow, and his clumsiness had persisted.

Until they tried dance. Ballet.

Where Sherlock had tripped and stumbled through everything that came before, ballet had presented him with a level of control and poise none of the other options had. It helped in other areas, too. Alongside the development of balance and grace, Sherlock gained his focus, intense determination for perfection, and tenacity. He’d excelled, learning through ballet how to manage his height until the growth spurts stopped, and he was no longer a coltish falling hazard. Though he’d tried to keep up with his ballet, school, life and, in time, his career had forced the hobby into the background.

At the age of thirty-five, sitting across from his frustrated son, Sherlock thought it couldn’t hurt for Dominic to try what had worked for him. Once the decision was made, it was easy enough to locate a local ballet studio and then enroll and accompany Dominic to his first class.

“You don’t have to stay,” Dominic told him. He was wearing tights under a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and training flats. Sherlock frowned and bent down to fix the ties on Dominic’s shoes.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock kept his face down, focused on the knots. “I don’t mind.” What he didn’t say out loud was that he felt a small flutter of envious anticipation. Sherlock knew he was something of an unorthodox father. Still, he’d found power and serenity in ballet, both of which had helped set his scattered, youthful mind at ease. If his son might experience even a fifth of that sensation, Sherlock found himself reluctant to miss out on witnessing it.

“Stop fidgeting, dad,” Dominic huffed, swatting at Sherlock’s hands. “You’re going to make them too tight!”

Sherlock didn’t take the dismissal personally. Dominic was nearing his teens, the time of his life where he began to seek out his independence. Though Sherlock had never been what anyone would call a helicopter parent, he still struggled to accept Dominic’s new-found drive for personal agency. Sherlock had been the same at Dominic’s age and wasn’t remotely surprised to find his son taking after him.

Still, it was harder on the other side, as the parent.

Finally satisfied with Dominic’s shoes, Sherlock cleared his throat and sat back. Offering a curt nod and receiving a brief hug from his son, Sherlock shooed the boy toward the other kids. He watched him slip into the group of children with only a quick look back at his father. He settled into stretches with the other participants, launching into a discussion Sherlock couldn’t hear from where he sat.

Unlike Sherlock, Dominic never seemed to struggle when it came to making friends. He had his mother to thank for that. Though she’d preferred to keep to herself, Caroline had been the kind of person who instantly made people feel at ease. It was part of what had made her one of Sherlock’s few close acquaintances, which now helped Dominic avoid his father’s own social short fallings.

Sherlock looked around the practice space. There were a few other parents, primarily mothers, lingering to watch their children. The class's skill level seemed to range from novice to brand-new. Looking at the other parents, Sherlock quickly deduced which child matched which adult and who were newcomers like Dominic. Three other new children were attending the class, and it was a relief to know Dominic wouldn’t be the only child starting out brand new that day.

A door set into the wall next to the long line of barres and practice mirrors swung open. The sound of it drew Sherlock’s attention, and he watched as a man entered the room. He was a little under average height and compact, his body muscled but not overly so. He was dressed in dark tights, loose shorts, and a sleeveless top. Sherlock saw that he was barefoot, a pair of ballet flats clutched in one hand.

He looked nothing like a contemporary ballet teacher, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. What he read on the man only increased his confusion. He was ex-military, perhaps a few years out of service, invalided home by an injury. A gunshot wound to… the left shoulder? Given the stiffness on that side of the man’s upper body, the shoulder seemed most likely. Sherlock noted that the man had an intermittent tremour in the hand on the same side. If he wasn’t mistaken, he’d once had psychosomatic pain in one of his legs and wasn’t classically trained in ballet.

Teeth pressing into his bottom lip, Sherlock frowned. Why would an ex-soldier be teaching novice ballet to children? Something didn’t add up.

Crossing his legs at the knee, Sherlock sat back on the uncomfortable bench seat and waited to see what the unlikely teacher would do.

The man called the children to attention with a loud clap. When he spoke, his voice was firm but friendly. It was a pleasant tenor that made Sherlock sit up and lean forward, his interest piqued.

“Alright. Quiet down, please.” The instructor waved the kids forward until they were gathered around him in a rough semi-circle. “I’m John. For some of you, this isn’t your first time here, so you’ve met me before. You’re probably wondering where Harry is. Well, she sprained her ankle, so I’m here to fill in until she’s back on her feet. For those of you who are new and don’t know, Harry is my sister, and she is usually the teacher for this class. Now, my experience is rather limited, as I’m more used to partnering with her, and my training is more basic. But I think it’ll be enough to go on until she’s back, yeah?”

John flashed the kids a friendly — if somewhat nervous — smile. Several children nodded their heads in sombre nods, and the faint confidence in John’s face grew.

Raising his voice, John lifted his eyes to the parents watching. “Hope that’s alright with everyone else?” More nods met John’s question, and he appeared pleased. His gaze swept over the adults, found Sherlock and lingered with a slight eyebrow quirk. Sherlock quickly nodded his own agreement, but John didn’t immediately look away. Their gazes locked, setting something alight in Sherlock’s chest.

When John finally did look away, Sherlock was appalled to find that there was a touch of heat to his face, simmering in his cheeks. He resisted the urge to touch his fingers to the warmth as it slowly faded.

The class progressed much as Sherlock had anticipated. John started with stretches, showing the children how to loosen the correct muscles and push gently into the more challenging postures. He led them through various basic stances, demonstrating each position himself before letting the children make their own attempts. He was patient and gentle in his corrections and advice.

To Sherlock’s critical eye, the children familiar with John seemed to like him. Those who were new warmed to him quickly, John’s easy nature endearing himself to them with only a few words. The latter included Dominic, who listened to John’s advice on his _plie_ with a furrowed brow and a determined expression.

By the end of the class, Sherlock had to admit that John, albeit nowhere near an expert, knew what he was doing. His training was fundamental, as he had said at the start, and his forms were a bit rough around the edges. But it was more than enough for someone who was temporarily filling in on a beginner class, and Sherlock’s apprehensions faded well before the class concluded. And, though he’d feared boredom, Sherlock had found observing the class entertaining.

It didn’t hurt that John was reasonably attractive.

Sherlock was roused from his wandering thoughts by Dominic barrelling into him. In his excitement, it seemed the pre-teen had abandoned any pretext of ‘too cool for his lame dad.' He was now climbing enthusiastically onto the bench seat to latch onto Sherlock’s back.

“Did you see me, da?” he asked, his voice loud and far too close to Sherlock’s ear.

Hiding his wince, Sherlock tilted his head back and smiled at the exuberant child. “I did. You did really well, Dominic.”

Dominic’s smile was supernova-bright, his energy bolstered by Sherlock’s praise. He squeezed Sherlock’s narrow shoulders, laughed, and rocketed off the seat like a cannonball. In a rather Sherlockian display of vigour, he hurtled toward the other students. Once he reached them, Dominic launched into an animated conversation with two other boys.

Sherlock watched him with a slight smile on his lips. Slowly, as the expression faded, he found his attention wandering. It roved over the space, stopping where John was fiddling with the practice equipment. His back was turned to the room, and Sherlock let his eyes wander over him. He took in the broad set of John’s shoulders, his tapered waist and powerful legs. Despite the probable wound in his left shoulder, his posture was near perfect. He looked poised and unperturbed, moving with no small sense of grace.

To his surprise, Sherlock found himself rising to his feet and crossing the room. His shoes squeaked over the highly-polished floor, alerting John to Sherlock’s approach. John turned and tilted his head, a small, welcoming smile already on his face.

“Hello.” His voice was unexpectedly warm.

Sherlock paused, thrown for a loop by the easy greeting. He swallowed and offered a hand. “Sherlock Holmes,” he introduced, caught off-guard by the bright blue of John’s eyes. They reminded him of the ocean, of the sky before a storm, and made his mental faculties grind to a halt.

“John Watson,” came the reply, John accepting the offered hand. His grip was confident: firm but not uncomfortably so. His palm was only slightly clammy from the light workout of teaching.

Sherlock thought their fingers lingered a few seconds longer than he thought strictly typical of a handshake between strangers. Still, he was almost disappointed when their grips released, and John dropped his arm back to his side. He looked up at Sherlock with an expectant light in his eyes as if waiting for Sherlock to explain what he wanted.

To Sherlock’s alarm, his mind went blank. Why _had_ he crossed the room? Why had he approached John at all? His brain offered no answer to either question and, feeling lost, Sherlock blurted out, “You’re not half bad, you know.”

One of John’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? Well, ta.” He glanced toward the remaining children, clustered nearby in a chattering group. Dominic was among them, dark curls moving with his animated talking. A look of understanding spread over John’s face. “You must be a parent,” he said, looking at Sherlock again. “Someone new?”

Sherlock nodded. “My son,” he said, indicating Dominic. The boy looked up and caught his father’s eye before glancing at John, blinking once, and turning his attention back to the other children.

“Oh, yeah, I see the resemblance now,” John said, offering another small smile. “I wondered if he was new. He’s a little clumsy but shows promise.”

Filled with a surge of pride, Sherlock stood a little taller. “I’d hoped as much.” He glanced at his son again. “I was the same, at my age.” When he turned back to John, he found the instructor eyeing him with a knowing expression, his dark eyes skating over Sherlock from head to toe.

“I don’t doubt that, with your height,” he said, lips quirking up in a slight smirk. “You used to dance, then?”

Sherlock swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Yes,” he replied, wondering why he felt almost light-headed. “From the age of seven to twenty-two.”

Both of John’s eyebrows rose this time. “Wow, that’s quite a stretch.” He tipped his head with a small frown. Something about the way his nose crinkled struck Sherlock as strangely endearing. “What made you give it up?”

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Work and school. Just life in general, I suppose.” His eyes skated toward Dominic again. John seemed to pick up on the unspoken at once.

“Single father?” he asked, his tone sympathetic and knowing.

Sherlock looked back at him with surprise. “Yes,” he said slowly, squinting at him. “Dominic’s mother passed away shortly after his birth.” He searched John’s face before asking, “How did you know?”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” John looked genuinely chagrined. “And it’s just a look you have about you,” he said with a shrug. “Also, not a lot of fathers bring their children to dance class, nevermind their sons. My sister says a lot of the mothers she meets complain about their uninvolved male partners.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said in a soft, wondering how he’d missed something that seemed so obvious. “Well, Dominic’s parentage has never been a traditional one.” At John’s confused look, Sherlock added, “It’s a complicated story.”

John’s expression shifted into something sympathetic. “I imagine so.” The grim look was gone the next moment, replaced by a warm smile. “Well, I’m glad he’s here now. I think that sounds lovely, a father introducing his son to something that brought joy to him in his own youth.”

Sherlock tilted his head in confusion. “Joy?” he repeated.

The glance John favoured him with was unexpectedly warm. “The way you watched the class, and how you spoke of your own experience with dance, tells me it brought you happiness, once.” A slightly mischievous look passed over John’s face. “Maybe you can help me out next class,” he said, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock’s widening eyes. “Might help the kids to see a partnered routine from someone who has more experience than I do."

Sherlock’s throat bobbed in a quick swallow. “You think so?” he asked, tentative, not sure he believed what was happening. He shot a nervous glance around them, wondering if John was having him on.

“I do.” There was a curl to John's lips that caught and held Sherlock’s gaze like a moth to the flame.

He swallowed again. “Perhaps,” he said, working to keep his voice level. John’s smile widened.

“Fantastic.” Rolling his shoulders in a stretch, John gestured to the space around them. “Well, I better get this stuff put away. Gotta be out of here before the advanced class starts.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, somewhat stiffly. He immediately berated himself for the awkwardness and was relieved when John’s smile didn’t falter. Clearing his throat, Sherlock tipped his head in a nod. “Well. Next time, then.”

“Next time,” John replied. He turned away, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.

As Sherlock crossed the gymnasium to retrieve his son, he thought John’s parting words sounded like a promise.

When they returned to the class the following week, Sherlock was buzzing with anticipatory energy. He was far more nervous than Dominic, who shot his father a curious look before running off to greet the other kids.

Standing by the benches, wearing the new leggings and loose t-shirt he’d purchased the day before beneath his long coat, Sherlock shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He was wearing his old ballet shoes, wooden blocks, old dried blood and all, and they seemed to fit far better than he’d expected after so long spent resting in a box under his bed. Wiggling his toes in the cramped space, Sherlock hoped he hadn’t brought them just to have his hopes dashed. All week, he’d agonized over whether or not to take John’s words at face value. For all Sherlock knew, John was just being kind and didn’t actually intend to ask for Sherlock’s assistance with the class.

Sherlock had never been good at reading social cues, and he worried today might be just another burn in a long line of burns.

John didn’t keep the class — or Sherlock — waiting long. He appeared from the side door and clapped his hands to gain everyone’s attention. “Hello, everyone,” he called, smiling at the children as they gathered around him. “Today, we’re going to start with the usual stretches and warm-up, then we’re going to try something new.”

“What’s that?” one child, a small girl with wide eyes and red hair, called from the front.

John aimed a smile her way. “Partnered moves.” He lifted his head and found Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock’s mouth instantly went dry.

“Dominic’s dad, Mister Holmes, has kindly agreed to assist me today.”

Dominic’s head whipped around so fast, Sherlock fancied he heard the muscles creak in his son’s neck. The red-headed girl piped up again, asking, “Two men can dance together?” She sounded genuinely curious. Sherlock eyed the other parents with trepidation, but no one seemed bothered by the thought of him and John dancing together.

“Of course they can,” John said without delay, waving Sherlock forward. “Anyone can dance with whoever they want.”

“I wanna dance with Annabelle,” the red-headed girl announced, grabbing the arm of the girl next to her.

“And you shall,” John replied, grinning up at Sherlock as he reached the group. “Let’s start the warm-up.” He led the class through a series of stretches, leaving Sherlock to strip off his coat and find a spot next to John, where he followed along. Throughout the warm-up, their eyes met intermittently, and John offered a small smile each time.

Once they had walked the class through basic positions and forms, John changed the music to something more classical. With the complex music filling the room, he turned to Sherlock and said, “Ready?”

Taking in the bright gleam of excitement in John’s eyes, Sherlock nodded mutely. John’s grin widened.

“Fantastic.” Turning to the kids, John said, “Now, this is called a _pas de deus_ — or ‘step for two.’” Facing Sherlock again, he tilted his head. “No lifts, obviously. But show me what you’ve got, and I’ll work from there.”

Sherlock tipped his head in a quick nod. Closing his eyes for a second, he breathed deep. His feet came together, leg muscles first protesting, then falling into the stance of first position. From there, Sherlock sank slowly into a _plie_ , legs bending out at the knee. He listened to the music, finding the spaces between the beat, where the tune spoke to him and drove him onward.

His arms rose. They lifted over his head, wrists bending as his legs came together, and he lifted onto his toes. The old ballet shoes rubbed against his toes, making him miss his lost calluses. But Sherlock persevered, leaping upward in a quick jump. He was dimly aware of John explaining his movements to the class, his voice a low and unintrusive cadence to the melody.

As he came down from the leap and his toes touched the ground, Sherlock felt a strength flow through his body that he hadn’t felt in ages. His limbs moved, seemingly of their own accord, his body shifting from one stance to the other. He bent at the waist, then extended into an _allongé_ , one leg lifted and his toe pointed. From there, Sherlock found himself in the air. He leapt forward, touching down briefly before lifting onto his toes and twisting into a spin that wasn’t entirely without flaws but still made him feel weightless. Arms lifting, drifting, leg muscles flexing as he moved across the polished floor, Sherlock felt freer than he’d felt in far too long.

He executed another leap, landed on one leg, extended the other, and spun it back into his body as he turned. Before he completed the turn, Sherlock felt someone move close. He adjusted his position to accommodate a partner, his arms lifting out from his body as a hand settled on his waist. The contact was firm, a warm palm cupping the curve of his side like it belonged there. A second hand brushed his chest and rose, slipping up and out to support his arm as Sherlock flicked his fingers into the air. He turned with the hands, letting them guide him, bending toward the floor with a smooth wave of one arm. Planting one foot on the floor, Sherlock lifted the other behind him. He dipped at the waist, swept his hand outward, and straightened again. They moved together, he and John, like a unit. Like an extension of one another, falling into a surprising flow that Sherlock never would have expected from a novice.

The hands on his body, now gripping his waist, remained steady throughout the routine.

Together, he and John moved through a supported _pirouette_ , a _développé_ , then into a _penché_ , and an _arabesque_ that Sherlock finished in the _croisé derière_ position. He took a moment to catch his breath, John’s hands gentle where they rested, letting Sherlock’s stomach expand fully with each inhale. His back was pressed to John’s front, and Sherlock felt the rise and fall of John’s breathing against his shoulders. There was an unexpected intimacy to the position. Without thinking, he leaned back just slightly.

John’s hands tightened in a minute grip, and his breathing stuttered. They softened just as quickly, and John’s exhale rushed out against the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Slowly, as he became aware of his surroundings again, Sherlock realized he was dripping sweat and that people were clapping. He raised his head, saw that not only were the children applauding, but so were the parents. Blinking, Sherlock wiped the perspiration from his brow and huffed out a surprised breath.

John, dropping his hands back to his sides, moved close so only Sherlock heard it when he spoke. “That was brilliant,” he whispered, his breath warm on Sherlock’s skin. The sensation made Sherlock shiver, and he turned his head to meet John’s bright, appreciative gaze.

“Thank you,” Sherlock managed to whisper back, his throat oddly tight. John grinned.

“I’ve never seen anyone move like you,” he continued, something a bit like awe in his voice. “Maybe you could tell me how you made all of that look so easy.” John’s mouth quirked, a gleam of humour sparkling in his eyes. “Maybe over dinner sometime?”

Sherlock blinked, caught off-guard by the request. “John Watson,” he said slowly, sounding breathless from the workout, “are you asking me out?”

John’s grin widened, and his eyes dropped to Sherlock’s mouth. “That depends,” he replied, still looking at Sherlock’s lips. “Would you say yes if I was?”

Blinking again, Sherlock sucked in an irregular breath and managed to say, “I would.”

“Oh, good,” John said with playful relief, meeting Sherlock’s gaze again. “Because, yeah, I am. Asking you out, that is.” He glanced away, saw that everyone was looking at them, and took a small step back with evident reluctance. “Children, please say thank you to Mister Holmes for his demonstration.”

To the dutiful drone of multiple childish renditions of _thank you,_ John leaned close again and pressed a slip of paper into Sherlock’s startled hand. “Here,” he said cheekily. “Don’t lose that, now.”

Sherlock turned his palm upward and looked at the little scrap. There was a phone number written on it, and he stared before looking at John again. “You already had this prepared?”

Shrugging, John winked. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t burning a hole in my pocket since this morning.” He rolled his shoulders back in a stretch. “Now, are you going to help me show these kiddos how you did that magnificent _pirouette_ , or am I going to have to muddle through on my own?”

Sherlock shook off his initial shock and tucked the slip of paper into his coat on the floor. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied and was rewarded with another bright grin from John.

As he moved forward to help John direct the children in their first positions, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that there was a new heat flickering in his chest. Though he still felt flushed from his workout, Sherlock didn’t think it was solely from the dance. A smile touched his lips, and Sherlock had to force himself to focus. John kept catching his eye, his face lighting up each time their gazes met.

Sherlock had forgotten how it felt to dance with another, and now, having experienced that again, he found himself looking forward to the possibility of more.


End file.
